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Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The comment, “I can’t write for women very well,” surprises
me every time I hear it. The complaint is legitimate in some ways, as much as I’d
like it to not be, so I suppose it’s the admission that shocks me more than
the intent. Girls and men alike are likely to worry about how realistic the
characters of the opposite sex are to come across, so, unlike what I believe, it does not just have to
do with the difficulty of making a female in general.

In the beginning, I didn’t worry about such things, and so I had a
hard time relating. Today, it is still not a huge concern of mine, but I will admit that every
once in a while I look at my men and think, “My God, you’re a pansy.”

I listened to an argument between a male playwright and a
group of female actors which expressed the problem decently. The man is not
what I would call, “enlightened,” (though I’m not saying that is typical for
everyone dealing with this issue) and he had very limited views, not only for
women, but people in general. His characters were superficial, their
motivations one-layered and obvious, and though they could be interesting and
funny to watch, they had no depth. Because the plays produced were done so by
his own hands (he was the writer, director, and star), he had the opportunity
to write the characters for the actors who would play them, and so he would
take the biggest flaw of that particular person (I was the bitch), emphasize it,
dramatize it, and remove all other substance from their personality.

It was fascinating from a psychological and authorial point
of view.

He would always write in a love interest who would, in
essence, have no personality. Played by either his girlfriend or his potential
girlfriend, she would sit around and be the only one concerned with where the playwright/director's character went. She would be the straight man in the scene.

My friend was engaged in a long term relationship with this
man, and has been for about three years. Recently, she came up to me bragging
that no longer was the playwright writing with the actors in mind. He gave her
a different sort of part. This time she was not the idyllic lover, but would now
play a dumb, ditzy blonde. I refrained from asking if she was sure it was his
style that had changed.

So several years ago, while in a production of his, he
stated before this gaggle of women of his issues on trying to write for female
characters. One girl responded, “Why? They’re just people.”

And there is the gist of the problem. Where does the conflict
stem from? How much different are men
and women? Certainly there is a cultural divide, if not a natural one. And, when a character diverges from the stereotype, how much
can we attribute to her personality and how much to the author's mistake?

I certainly have found that people claiming this strife tend
to be more gender-focused, but it could be that they’re just the ones who
are more aware of it or even just the ones who are willing to state it. In my experience, girly
girls and manly men have been the sorts who expressed writing opposite genders their biggest
concern, which says something about the issue, but
it’s hard to say what.

First and foremost, it is important to realize that authors
who write dialogue well in general can break against the stereotypes believably; the question is how likable that character will be. As much as I’d hate to
admit it, we attribute certain traits to each gender, and though abiding by those
assumptions will not necessarily make an appealing character, it will attribute
to a certain amount of diversity that we come to expect. But, like anything,
too much “feminine traits” will come out as a stereotype, and then again too many
“masculine traits” will just be distracting if not annoying.

Thus, here is the philosophical problem: Am I (the hypothetical author) just making a
character and thereby confronting any cultural assumptions we have, or, am I
just limiting myself to my own ignorance?

Which is why the question is about how good the writer is at
“voice” is important. It is very much possible for a woman to have masculine traits
and a man to have feminine traits, and if the dialogue sounds believable than the
audience will accept it as a personality, not as a mistake. So it is my conception that learning to motivate speech in general will overcome the issue.

But I will admit that “bad” writing can get worse when
a person of another gender is speaking, especially when the author has a
specific view of that sex.

I once edited a novella in which the writer clearly had
trust issues with women. At the time, I did not know him very well, but I
noticed that whenever the love interest spoke, particularly when claiming vows
of devotion, she sounded like she was lying through her teeth. Over time, as his
relationship with my friend took flight, it became more and more obvious
exactly how he perceived girls. He idolized them, put them on a pedestal,
dehumanized them, and saw them as this powerful force that really only wanted
to manipulate men, being incapable of love themselves. But he was a
romantic at the same time, which caused most of the conflict in his life.

He was an extreme when it came to this sort of problem, and
it must be pointed out that when it came to the dialogue it was all pretty
unconvincing. The author had issue with making characters in general, and when
he develops the ability over time, I would like to see his female leads and if
the insincerity remains. Characters who sound like they’re lying is very
typical for inexperienced writing. As fiction is making up a fabrication, of course, when not done right, it will sound like a
fabrication.

For those who write dialogue well and do come up with
complex characters, the issue of “writing cross gender” can still remain, but I
think in a different form. Instead of having stilted and forced conversation,
it is more along the lines of the audience disliking or just having no
interest in the character.

Writing a female character that women will like is hard (for
authors of either sex). In fact, I personally believe that writing women is harder than for men in general, though I haven’t done studies. When it comes to a
female lead or love interest, we have to contend with two main problems:

1) Many women don’t like women.

We love to say things like, “I mostly have guy friends. I
don’t get along with girls.” I am interested to know the reason for this is, in
all honesty. I think that society as a whole has problems trusting women, but I
also would like to think that is isn’t
true. I know that I personally tend to be far more critical of the women on
screen, but I also know that my attention is always drawn to the women on
screen. Perhaps it is because of the rarity, or because all the characters tend
to pay attention to her. An important field of study for the literary world is
whether or not our common perception of women is due to the author’s or the
audience’s view.

2) How a woman “should” be is controversial.

Men have to deal with the complications of strict
expectations. What we expect out of a male character is very clear and to the
point; we want to see someone either strong, brave, or intelligent, or a
combination. If a guy can obliterate competition by means of physically or verbally,
he is appealing. However, if he diverges from those expectations he has a
harder fall. A weak, stupid, and cowardly man is undesirable, only likable when a foil to the protagonist. Women, on the other hand, have split expectations. We could make a
well-written, strong woman, (we will assume that all of these characters are
well made) but that doesn’t mean that the girls in the audience will like her. Just
because she can kick ass doesn’t mean that her movie will be appealing. Even if
she kicks ass verbally, she may not be likable. By either gender.

What society wants from women isn’t clear. There are those
who like the idea of the kind, innocent virgin. There are those who would find
that to be an irritating stereotype. Often times, it’s not even about the woman’s
traits that make us like her or not, but the situation that she’s in. I love
Buffy the vampire slayer and Xena, despite my natural distaste for the “warrior
woman.” I hate Pepper from Iron Man,
even though she’s not illogically a badass (a huge pet peeve of mine). I hate
Zoey from Firefly even though she’s
written by the same person as Buffy. Part of this has to do with the actors,
part of it has to do with the difference between being protagonists and
supporting characters, and a great deal of it has to do with their
relationships between them and other people.

In the end, I’m not sure what my ideal female character is.
It is easier for me to say what I am looking for in a man. And we might believe
this is due to my being female and therefore more consistently thinking about
appealing male traits in real life, but it is actually that lack of thought
that makes writing cross gender so problematic, e.g., people don't know what they want someone of the opposite sex to say to them, therefore they don't say anything right. (I'm not going to go into homosexuality because a gay author's view on gender is a long blog in itself.)

I think these two factors also affect men, to some extent.
Male readers tend not to consider the female character nearly as much as women
do, and female readers tend to ignore the male characters much more than men.
But trying to know what personalities to give a woman for guys to like is hard
in itself. Because though there are those who love the “virgin” stereotype,
there are few who will accept a straightforward, dull virgin character. Though they (some) still want nice and innocent, they don’t necessarily want doormat and
stupid, and they demand her being an in-depth character just as much as anyone
else. And there are many men who the virgin doesn’t appeal to.

When it comes to writing male characters, however, the gap
between male and female readers is larger. For one thing, protagonists can get
away with having very little personality, but making a main character a woman
gives her a huge characteristic. This
means that a male character who starts out as a blank slate really is a blank
slate, but a female character now has some weight on one side of the scale, so
we need to give her some traits on the other side if we want to be level (and though we can become balanced again, it will never truly be zero). As good
news for writing male characters, that means that the male protagonist could be appealing to both men and
women as long as we give him no details, but a female character can’t.

Now the likelihood of him being appealing with no traits is
small, and few people actually want to write a character like that, which is
where the gender of the reader becomes important. Men are more accepting of men
than women are of women. Men also tend to be readers who perceive themselves as the character rather than with the character, which is why Mr. Mary
Sue can survive better than a Ms. Mary Sue. (It is also important to note that we are not likely to identify a Mr. Mary Sue as often as a Ms. Mary Sue, which is why we call it a "Mary Sue" and not "Steven Lou.") Secondly, as discussed before,
because we only really expect strength, bravery, or intelligence from men, characters
who are convincingly strong, brave, or intelligent will be appealing to the
male audience. If the guy can kick ass in one manner or the other, the audience is
happy.

When trying to make women like men, it’s more complicated.
In American culture, it is not typical for people who see themselves as the
characters to relate to cross gender characters. Though women will often root
for the male protagonist over anyone else, it is not typical for her to be
sitting their fantasizing about being him (though it is more typical for women
than it is for men). Therefore, though women also expect the three main
qualities, it’s more complicated than that, chiefly when it comes to the male
love interest.

Love scenes can often be the hardest moments to write,
whether that includes sex or not. It is a moment, for the author, of raw
honesty, intimacy, and passion. We are admitting to our deep down fantasies,
and that can be embarrassing.

Many times when love scenes come out badly it is because the
author is not “in touch with his own feelings.” People will often put up walls
before they can get too emotionally deep, and this is a huge problem for
artists. I once worked with an actress who wanted to cry on stage, but she had
spent her entire life concealing her emotions. This disabled her from being
able to show them when she finally wanted to. She, like many others do, had put
her feelings to the back of her mind and done her best to never think about
them. She never considered why she had them, how they felt physically, where she felt
them, or how to prevent them in the future. Often times, it is hard to write a
love interest because we are simply not aware of what we want that person to
be.

When I try to understand why people are so concerned with
writing cross gender, I think of this context. It is very hard to write a lover
who the readers will love.

Part of this has to do with everyone’s perfect someone being
different. Part of this has to do with our desires for inappropriate
relationships. Part of this has to do with our uncertainty by what we actually
want.

If we could have a lover say exactly what we wanted to hear,
what would that be? What traits would that person have? Even when we know how
we think we want them to be, it’s common to try and write that down and be
unable to come up with anything; it’s not specific enough or not
accurate enough. Plus, fantasizes can be “wrong,” what society wouldn’t approve
of, like abusive relationships with insane men, sleeping around, polygamy, bondage,
and other flights of fancy that we probably don’t even want in real life.
Sometimes the hardest part of writing a love scene is simply revealing the dark
secrets of what we fantasize about love being like.

But, despite the gender imposed on the statement, sometimes,
“It’s hard to write for women,” just means, “I can’t get this character right.”
Sometimes, by just being worried about it, we can stifle our own abilities, and
sometimes it just isn’t working.

First and foremost, focus on that specific character rather
than the gender as a whole. Who is this person, and how does gender affect him
or her?

-How much
does the character subscribe to gender roles or how much does he rebel?

-Does the
character think that men should be manly and girls should be girly? Does the
character try to do what he or she is “supposed to”? Does he do the exact
opposite? Does she just not care, landing somewhere in the middle?

Next, assume about similarities and choose differences. This
is true for all characters. It is typical for authors to go through a
self-rejecting stage in which they say, “this person is different than me,” and
attempt to start with a blank slate. This is how superficial and insincere
characters are made. It is much harder to recreate the complexity of a human
being from scratch than to utilize a blueprint (you). The author’s subconscious
will make many decisions for him without him knowing, and working with that,
rather than against it, will give him a background color to make choices onto.
Saying, “This character is nicer than me, “she cares about appearance more than
me,” “she’s had a lot harder of a life than me,” will allow the writer’s
instincts to do its job, but also give him the opportunity to make that
protagonist the way he wants her to be, and not just a replication of himself. Saying, “She is nice,
appearance-oriented, and comes from a bad background,” doesn’t compensate for
the thousands of other traits and experiences she has had. Everyone has
similarities, and so the author does with his characters. Worry about being
completely different from her will just give him a headache.

Thus, sometimes it is hard to write cross gender because we are assuming they are different from us and simply not knowing how.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

When I write, it looks like I’m having a seizure. So
perturbed by certain words, I have a physical reaction every time I feel
inclined to use them. Expressions like “just,” “was,” and “very” cause an eye
twitch, despite my own personal belief that these are not something that can
break a story. This blog is called “What’s Worse than Was,” for a reason. Yet,
no matter how much I realize it is not only ridiculous to write an entire story
with no adverbs, but not appealing either, I still can’t help myself second
guess with every “was” uttered.

External input and how to receive it can be the hardest part
of the writing process. It’s just as wrong to blatantly take advice as it is to
blatantly reject it. In college, I had a professor try to simplify the problem by
saying, “Just decide to take it or don't.” But it was not something he had a lot of
experience with, and so did not realize why that wasn’t really viable.

In the beginning, few of us are trying to improve
as much seeking the thrill of achievement. In this first stage we want to show what we’ve
done, to get some emotional reward for all the hard work. This is often disparaged,
especially how, as we are not yet looking for criticism, we can take it badly.
But there is nothing wrong with seeking approval, as much as we like to say it
is. An artist needs to gain confidence, feel the pleasure that comes from
someone else reading their work, and really understand how good the feeling can be
before they start to actively work to being better. People often give up because they don't remember what the reward will feel like after the years of work.

But, after a while, we want bigger things than just a couple of
compliments: publishing, admiration, large scale readers, and though the need
for approval is still there, we can sacrifice our egos in order for a bigger
payoff.

My professor, who had not yet even completed an independent work
in his life, had not come to the point in his life where he actually wanted feedback, so he did not understand
why a basic do or don’t attitude doesn’t work. I know because there would be a hell of a lot of postmortems ending abruptly when he was the director. For those who are seeking honest
ways to better themselves, the question becomes a lot harder.

Say, for instance, someone says, “Don’t use adverbs.”

Now, we might logically know several things. This is a
common piece of advice that repeatedly circulates. Its well versed nature means that it may be
good on the grounds that many people agree with it, but it may be bad on the
grounds that it takes little thought to parrot it. The author is
aware that he would be hard put to find a “great” book that doesn’t use adverbs, and that a bad
story does not immediately become good after having deleted them. Does that make it untrue?

To simply reject it as a lie seems too simple too. We then have
to consider why the person said it, and what it actually means. They say “don’t,” “never,”
and “always,” which sound as if they are absolutely true, but everyone knows that’s
not right. So learn to interpret it. “Don’t use” means “don’t over use.” “Never” means “use less,” and
always means “use more.” Then, we think, the person is probably saying it because they feel
like you did overuse adverbs and they want you to use less, but in order to
avoid explaining exactly how much less, they utilize the assumption that you’re
not really going to listen to them completely, and hope that you will end up
with a good balance. Plus, the ramifications of you actually listening is now you have no adverbs at all, which doesn't seem like a big deal. There is a clear benefit to just telling the author to go overboard rather than really trying to figure out the "appropriate" amount.

The next question we have to consider is if they thought
you overused adverbs because of what you did, or because they were looking for
them. Getting feedback is a little problematic because people don't necessarily know what "good" and "bad" is, probably because, in my opinion, it doesn't actually work like that. So they often will clench onto some sort of pet peeve and utilize that to define quality, such as if "I look to see if you have an inciting incident on page 15 of a screenplay," or something equally as arbitrary. It's important to watch out for these because trying to abide by these Calvinball rules will just make you crazy.

It’s like Neil Gaiman says, “When people tell you something
is wrong, they are 100% right. When they tell you how to fix it, they are 100% wrong.”

When actively trying to improve work and ourselves, if we
ignore what doesn’t make sense or what isn’t true, then we will have little to go on. If we
were to just delete all adverbs, than we'd be limiting ourselves to an extreme amount for an guaranteed (and unlikely) benefit. If we were to
just leave them, we are ignoring an opportunity that is rare enough as it is. Getting someone to read your work and respond to it is nearly impossible; we can't afford to ignore the less-than-perfect critiques.

This analytical turmoil is not just a problem during a criticism. It is much worse when the author sits in his home, alone, staring at
his computer screen with only himself to discuss the problem with, and he comes
along an issue that he’d thought he’d come to terms with. We sit there, unable to get external advice, freaking out because we're not sure if it is acceptable to have eight main characters or if that's a huge ding on our book.

It is common to overuse “be” verbs and adverbs and saids and
overwrite and underwrite and passive-sentences and all the things that people
say are overdone. But if we were to try and prevent ourselves from using any of
them, we wouldn’t be able to write at all. Fixating on these inane, if not
accurate, restrictions causes a lot of frustration.

It’s a hard point to balance on, the difference between
trying know what to change and to know what to keep the same, to know what is legitimate
judgment and what is ridiculous. There is no reason to cling to decisions that
hinder us, but actively trying to change rules of the writing world that don’t matter is just a
waste of time. The only advice I can give when being faced with arbitrary rules is to not worry about it. Easier said
than done, believe me, I know. But sometimes knowing that’s okay to not give a
damn, even when we realize that giving a damn might lead to insight, is exactly what we need to move on without needing to hold our tongue
down. Fixating on the little details may be helpful, but it's too painful to deal with constantly.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Every time I’ve entered a book store during the last year, I
would immediately be drawn to one singular book. A gray cover of a singular
tie, I would snatch up 50 Shades of Gray
and look at the back before immediately remembering having done the exact same
thing seven times before. Before I knew of the reputation of the novel, I would
keep being intrigued by the cover and deterred by the summary. The sad part
comes from the very good chance that if I ever committed to reading it, I have
a decent idea that I would like it.

Why do I keep putting it down? One single word: “Intern.”

Something that is unique to me (meaning uncommon to the
majority of your readers) is my distaste for the realistic modern America
setting. I hardly can enjoy supernatural modern America. I have and can
overcome this small distaste, but it has to have some other element to
compensate.

The problem is not, of course, how it affects my reading,
but my writing. Considering that this disinterest in anything, well, relatable,
is not a popular thread of thought, it makes it more difficult for me to
understand the appeal and therefore connect with them. All authors have this
problem, of course (though not necessarily with this subject), which is why I
bring it up.

The first issue comes from my foray into theatre. I feel
inclined, and not entirely mistakenly, that critically respected theatre is the
one that deals with small modern issues. If we look at most of the Pulitzer
prize winners since the turn of the century, they mostly consist of mundane and
dark family issues, whether it be Arthur Miller’s The Death of a Salesman to David Lindsay-Abaire’s Rabbit Hole or anything Sam Sheppard’s
ever written, despite how surreal things tend to get.

Now, though having a good reputation amongst the “intellectuals”
is important to me, it is not a priority. I am not the sort of person to
compromise myself just for success. In fact, I often tend to err on the stubborn
side for very inane things. But when I would try to put my characters in this
setting so dull to me, I didn’t perceive it as (for lack of a better term)
selling-out. Being well versed is a goal of mine, and I don’t want to be
limited.

So what would happen? Plays gave me the worst cases of tedium.
I would form a concept that didn’t require a specific world and so, for whatever
reasons, I’d decided that they lived a very normal modern life. And I couldn’t
care less about any of it.

Writing can be a lot like drinking in that most of the
experience is miserable. Whether it be having to gag down the taste in the
beginning or the hangover afterwards, a drunk has about five minutes of fun (or
what seems like) and six hours of discomfort. Writing while inspired, however,
is that moment in between, right when the toxicity is such that everything in
the world is happy. That moment of pure bliss where we drive through a scene, a
chapter, or even an entire story is what we remember when we keep deciding to
do it again.

My point being, of course, that if we can induce our own
inspiration then we will be happier, and my problem of the setting is a good
reason why we’re not inspired.

There are things that we like to read about that may or may
not be true for others. For me personally, the best works are comedy in serious
situations, romance in fantasy settings, and companionship in easily ignored
plots. I like reading about writers, anthropomorphic cats, one-sided
relationships, and happy endings. Here are the problems: Not what I like
reading about is what other people like reading about, and to only write what I
want to read would start creating a series of patterns that restricts me and is
indicative of an unimaginative author.

However, I have consistently found that my attempts to write
without considering my own personal tastes leads to abandoned projects, and the
ones that I change to be more of what I would want to read has created some of
my favorite works.

I find it fairly typical for authors to go through a
self-rejection phase. When critiquing starting writers’ work, I have often
heard them say, “I’m struggling with this character’s reactions, because I know
she isn’t me and wouldn’t react like me.” We like to think that we’re unique
and we have sort of an “us and them” mentality in which we don’t know how our readers will be different, so we
will just assume that they’re different.

But writing shouldn’t be hard. Even if those whose goals are
focused more around external rewards than internal, such as positive reception versus
emotional release, won’t be hurting themselves by indulging themselves with
their own preferences.

It can be tempting to err on the I’m special/I’m wrong side
instead of acknowledging that there’s someone out there like me/there’s someone
out there who agrees with me. Two human beings will always have similarities,
despite their different backgrounds, personalities, and beliefs. It’s hard for
me to understand why someone might love Death
of a Salesman, and so for me to try to replicate that is harder than for me
to try and replicate something I love. And not just because of knowledge, but
because of passion.

Passion can be dull to people who don’t understand it, so it
can be hard to commit to it. But it is important to remember that there are
others who will be just as passionate, that not everyone will be interested in any
subject chosen, and that if you have fun writing it is a thousand times more likely
to be fun to be read.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

I had a personality change in college. High school, the time
when I started writing, filled me with confidence, ingenuity, and
self-importance. College gave me empathy, ability and self-doubt.

I was a serial third place winner. And I’m not talking the sort where everyone gets a ribbon. I’m talking cash prizes. Every single art contest I applied to I would win third place or sometimes second place. Ratherly worse, never better.

Yet after the event I would
have judges and spectators tell me my project was their favorite. They loved my piece.

So why didn’t
I ever win? Because my work was crappy. I always had something far different
and stranger than the rest, but the execution revealed exactly how much thought
I put into it: the bare minimum. Because I didn’t care. I was lazy, and I
thought the idea was enough. I slapped things together, thought I was fated to
do well, and left it at that. My community was not big on “winning” or
competition. Though I wouldn’t change all my experiences to help learn
how to push yourself and play the game, I would have liked to know now, as I
face failure or success, how to compete.

But then I went to college where I grew more aware of the
world and myself, and the desire for success came with the understanding it was not
necessarily going to happen. I started to focus less on the
idea and more on the quality. I wrote with less importance on the concept and
gimmick in favor of pacing and word choice. A person might think that this made
me a more well-rounded author, but what it really did was take my qualities and
flaws and flip them.

Balance is an extremely important part of the arts.
Everything in moderation, as we say. And as I ignored one aspect in favor of
getting better on another, I was not being as efficient as I could. Of course,
talents don’t just go away and if I was to change my attention to the opposite,
I would fair very well. But there was one portion of me that I have struggled
to find again, and that was self-confidence.

We all have faced this problem before: someone gives a piece
of advice that an author doesn’t want to take. If you refuse, are you being
true to yourself or egotistical and ignorant?

In high school, I would have trusted myself. In college, I
would have trusted other people. In different contexts, both could save me,
both could destroy me, and both could do nothing at all. More importantly, I
would not know which until after the chance to change it has passed.

Knowing when to stay and when to fold is the entire issue in
“constructive criticism.” It’s situational, and the best answer is the one that
works. This is often impossible to know. Over the course of the years, I have
come across three rules I use to determine when I should hold my ground and
when to hear them out.

1. Keep what you care about, change what
you don’t. (And realize that you don’t care about as much as you think you do.)

If it really bothers you to make a change, then it’s
probably not the right thing to do. Entertainment is about emotions, and if
you’re emotionally attached than it’s a good sign. The important part that
makes this harder than we’d like is understanding why you’re attached, and realizing it
might not have anything to do with a love of what you’ve done. Refusal for
change can be attributed to many things, some having nothing to do with how you
like it. We are often stubborn because 1) it’d be hard to change it or 2) we
perceive changing it as admitting you’re wrong (see below). It might not be obvious
at first, but if you can admit to yourself that either of these are your main
reasons (or you can’t figure out your reasons), having changed it will answer
the question of what’s best for the project.

2) Sacrifice your right to be right.

Humans have an obsession with being right. This innate trait
may cause a good number of arguments, but it is a part of life, and isn’t
necessarily a bad thing. This need to prove ourselves is a huge reason why we
might not want to make a change, especially when we’re not wrong.

A common criticism I receive is when I am using a word
improperly. But I didn’t. I used it strangely. I could agrue creativity and style in keeping it, however, I often know that the word, though prettier than its more basic sister, isn’t the best option for me.

The question becomes not about
what the word means, but what are the rewards and negatives to using it. It
comes down to these concepts:

1) What do I get out of keeping it?

2) What do I lose by changing it?

3) How common is this reaction going to be?

The last one is tough to answer, but an (honest) educated
guess will probably lead you to the truth. Do you think that, for example, the
critic is more or less aware of the word’s definition than the average person?
If you foresee this being a common problem not worth the benefits, then it is
the easiest way to know if you should get rid of it.

3. Consider who the speaker is.

The obvious part of this being, does he know what he’s
talking about? But I personally don’t consider expertise as a clear indicator of truth because gut
reaction from a layman is what most authors have to contend with. We’re trying to make the masses happy, not the experts.

The
important aspects I consider:

1) How do
they feel about you?

2) What are
their tastes?

3) Do they believe what they are saying?

A person who hates you personally, or worse, sees you as an
amateur will change the way they judge a work. Our perception going in will
drastically affect our judgment coming out, and a person who wants you to fail
or thinks that you will has a very different response than the average reader.
A reader who doesn’t like you will look for things to hate, which might make
you think they’d be the best critic. But the subjects they choose to talk about
are not usually about problems as much as choices.

“Normal,” in terms of writing, is anything the viewer ignores
or pays little attention to. For instance, a kitchen described has having
chairs and a table, will not be considered as much as one with a cauldron and a
coffin. A writer often pays as much attention to the norm as a reader does, and
rarely do we make conscious choices about innane things; our brains will
insert “the normal” for us.

The point being that conscious choices that go against “normalcy”
draw attention to themselves, like the coffin in the kitchen. That makes those
things an easy target. So instead of commenting on more problematic and
arguable topics, (“It was boring.”) they pay attention to more obvious elements
(“You’re not Rocky and Bullwrinkle; you don’t need two titles”). Of course, that’s
not to say they are wrong, but it is to say they are more likely to be a jerk
than helpful, and jerks are more likely to stifle creativity then solve issues.
On that note, it is also important to check your feelings and realize when you
are not going to take their advice simply because you hate them.

When someone doesn’t think you know what you are doing, he will
criticize you for small, inane (and obvious) things, often making mistake as
readers and attributing them to the writer. For example, they may think a word
spelled correctly is wrong. When we see something like that in a published
book, then we assume it’s our mistake, but when we see it in a draft, we think
it’s the authors.

Unlike someone who hated you, even those who look down on
you can love you, and that makes it an even bigger problem. Their nitpickiness
might be pointing out little details that most readers will be annoyed with, or
they might just be driving you crazy. But if you strangely want to keep
something the way it is, then realizing they’re treating you differently can
give you a good reason to keep it.

Lastly, we come to lying. People don’t out and out do this
for this sort of thing, but they will often give you advice they don’t believe.
If you disagree with a response that a) they wouldn’t do themselves, b) they
just heard from somewhere and repeated it because it sounded good, or c) they
want to be true, it might be best to stick with your gut.

You know yourself better than anyone, and it is your vision
you’re trying to follow. By remembering that you want to succeed above all, you
can deal with your own ego and other’s accordingly.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Writing should be easy. It won’t be, but it
should. Unlike hard labor, concrete problem solving, or most work, there are a
thousand ways to tackle a story at one time, and the best way isn’t always the
obvious or always the same.

The trick to writing is finding out why it has
gotten hard and change tactics. From planning too much to not planning at all,
from making the wrong decision to making no decision, from sitting in bed to
sitting at a desk, a writer can destroy his inspiration and ideas by simple,
little changes—and revitalize it in the same way.

Most people, writers or not, will have many
started novels, plays, and movies on their desktop, and far less finished ones,
if any at all. Though most stop with reason, and not every story is worth the
effort it would be to finish, it is much harder to see it to the end than it is
to start over. Sometimes it’s more important to understand why we quit and
solve the problem, especially when it is often due to the same five reasons.

1. It is a
premise without a plot.

The plot
of a story is the main conflict that is resolved in the end. The premise is an
idea or concept with no obvious conclusion because it is often a situation, a
setting, or even the life of a character.

How an
author is inspired is none of anyone else’s business, and starting with a
concept is a common and fine way to do it. The problem is not that he started with
a premise, but when he stops because it’s all he has.

Examine
the story and ask what the obvious ending would be. A plot will have some clear
solution (even if it is not a good one) where a premise won’t.

When writer’s
block rears its ugly head, sometimes all the author needs to do is figure out
the character’s goal and something preventing him from getting it and he will
have steam to move forward.

2. It is
an antagonist’s plot.

Now, if we
define the plot as the conflict and solution to a character’s super objective,
then it is assumed that it would be the protagonist’s. Today, however, many stories,
films especially, will have the main character the victim of circumstance.

Modern
stories tend to be driven by the antagonist’s objective, such as The Lion King. Not only do Simba’s goals
change throughout the film, but most of them are passive ones: waiting to be
king, wanting to do nothing, wanting to be left alone. And, for that matter, he
does not seek out anything he wants, but is led to it like a horse to water.
Simba does not make things happen. Scar does. The plot is the king’s brother wants to be ruler and the prince stands in his way.

Again,
there is nothing wrong with the villain leading the plot forward; it’s just
harder. When the main character is standing around, waiting for some mentor to
show up to tell him how talented he is and what he should do, it is just as hard
for the author to move the story forward as it is for the protagonist to move his
life forward.

Many
movies compensate for this by having subplots, such as Aladdin’s love interest
with Jasmine while Jafar (who is clearly propelling the events) tries to take
over the world. Jafar is Aladdin’s obstacle in getting the princess, while
Aladdin is Jafar’s obstacle in getting the lamp. This allows for Aladdin to
have something to do while he’s waiting around for Jafar to make his move.

There are two
easy ways to give the hero something to do while the villain compiles his evil
plans. One, give him a separate objective that happens to land him in the line
of fire (such as Jasmine bringing Aladdin to the palace.) Or two, make his
objective to explicitly be to mess up the antagonist’s plan. He knows what the villain wants, and he wants him not to have it.

3. It is
unconvincing, boring, or doesn’t meet the author’s standards.

Simply,
the writer is discouraged because he doesn’t like what he’s made. This is,
unfortunately the common reason why we stop writing. There important thing to
remember is that a writer won’t get better unless he a) Makes a lot of crap, or
b) Fixes the same crap until it is no longer crap. The best way is a mixture of
the two, but if we have to chose, either would work.

There is a time to start over, but that should not be the default. Often it’s best to see
it through to the end for the sake of experience, the feeling of achievement,
and because it’s probably not as bad or hard to fix as we think.

This is,
of course, up to the judgment of the author if he is quitting because he’s
being a quitter or if he’s quitting because it is abnormally “bad,” and he
knows he can do better. The writer knows best.

4. There
is missing information.

Many like
to write how we read, not knowing the secrets of the world and the story until
they reveal themselves. Yet there is such a thing as foreshadowing, leading up
to the events, and acting like the world is a concrete, real place, not being
made up on the spot.

If the
inspiration never dries up, the story seems to answer itself, and writer’s
block never arrives, then the author does not need to preplan anything. Why would he? But for
those moments that he sits there staring at the screen with a horrified expression,
the simple answer to “What do I not know?” can stop it.

Sometimes
not knowing where the scene is going, how it’s going to get where he wants it
to be, or any other important plot point will be a huge obstacle that the
author might not even be aware of. Sit back and answer all those important
questions that you’re avoiding and see if the inspiration returns.

5. Not
enough sense of accomplishment.

Writing a
novel takes a long time. It is lonely, it is frustrating, it is scary, and even
when finished, there’s not necessarily going to be any reward for it.

Creating
hurtles, rewards, motivations, and little games can get us through the long
haul. Have a goal, such as a daily page count, word count, or time spent.
Reward yourself when you meet those goals, such as putting a dollar in a “superfluous
spending” account, or eat a cookie. Sometimes I will make the font huge, write
five pages, then move down a size to 48px, write back up to five pages, then
move down again until I’m at the right page count and font size. Sometimes I
will time myself writing a page and try to beat the speed for the next one.

The
quality of writing while doing this will vary immensely, but it is anywhere from better
to worse. Meaning that, yeah, it will have its effects, but not necessarily for the worse. Changing up the pace and goals can help with the tedium, and meeting arbitrary
goals makes us feel like we’re doing something when working on an overwhelming
project.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

The communication gap between teacher and student is large
and vague. Often times, it’s just hard to understand what the other doesn’t
understand.

When looking back on my own personal incomprehension, I’ve come to several
conclusions as to why I didn’t get it. One was the way it was told to me.
Abrupt, concrete, and often condescending, of course I wasn’t going to listen
when I felt like they thought I was an idiot. Secondly, it was never the whole
story. People who said not to use adverbs did. And they did, because when they
said “never” what they meant was “don’t overuse.” We say don’t because that’s a
lot easier to obey than use moderation.

Lastly, and most importantly, when we give children advice,
it comes from an idyllic form of reality, not reality itself. And thus, having
been told that they shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, they are confused when
we demand they wear uniforms.

Whether it be Disney, high school, or even the parents, the
world constantly instructs the youth that life is the way it should be and are
surprised when they believe it.

We were told we could do anything then they don’t want us to
become rock stars. We were told that it’s bad to lie then they are nervous for
our college applications essays. We were told to always be ourselves then they are
mad when we won’t play the game. We were told to always be grateful for what we
have then they can’t believe we’re still living at home at thirty.

Artists’ careers thrive within the idyllic realm. If an
accountant says he’s doing his job to make money, that’s understandable. If an
author does, he’s put a black mark on his career. The great artists are of pure
integrity, and create art for the art, not for the respect, money, security, or
fans.

Americans are taught it is wrong to want things. Possessions,
money, power, and, for women, love, are objectives for evil, unlikable, or
pathetic characters. It is okay to want safety, as long as they’re not being
ungrateful for what they have.

Which is why, in modern film and literature, we see a great
deal of heroes wanting little to nothing and merely contending with the villains'
desires. Whether it be the Hero’s Journey, the self-fulfilling prophecy, or a
Disney movie, we are told that good people sit around and wait for fame, where
bad people seek it. Doing things is evil.

Here’s the issue: quality is not universal, a second draft
won’t necessarily be better than the first, and whether or not someone likes
the work is based around what it’s being compared to. So it becomes very hard
to make decisions on how to improve. Especially when no one likes to talk about
the concept of improving.

In college, I wanted to impress my professor. (This
confession, by the way, is exactly the sort of mentality a proper author should
never make because it’s not a goal a true artist would have.) But the plays he
liked and hated seemed to have no discernible pattern. Some of the worst works
shared main traits with the best. And he would constantly say that you can’t
judge a work by whether or not you like it as well as it’s not about what the
author meant because sometimes he doesn’t know. So I asked him, “How do you
know if a script is good or not?”

(And, of course, I meant, “How do you know if a script is good or not?”)

His response? “You learn with experience.”

The conversation went on for hours, and I could get no better answer.

I’ve had this argument with several different people, and
for a long time it was hard for me to understand the miscommunication.

Art is subjective, and that makes it damn hard to make
decisions. I feel as if I could break through some truth on what good is that
my life would be made easier. But often times when I try to talk about it, I
get the same sorts of responses. Artists are careful not to reveal any “superficial”
desires, as, for that matter, are most people in our culture.

But the truth of that matter is that no matter how bad it
looks to want things, it is okay to want what you want. And more importantly,
we need to know what we want if we ever hope to achieve happiness. Though we
can often be mistaken in what will make us happy, (thinking that if we had the
money there would be no more problems, or if we lost the weight everyone would
like us better) as long as the desires don’t make other people miserable, then
we should keep our goals in mind.

In terms of writing, honesty about goals relieves
frustration. When an author doesn’t know what he doesn’t like about his work, when
he doesn’t know if he wants to change something or leave it, when he is trying
to edit without any available feedback, knowing what he is trying to achieve,
therefore not achieving, will tell him if and how to make changes.

If we treat the writing world the way it should be rather
than the way it is, if we consider any forms of playing the game selling out,
and if we refuse to acknowledge our own desire for success, then the only thing
we can depend on is luck or fate, which is a very depressing way to go.